


VALAR DOHAERIS

by delibell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Essos, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Magic, More romance will be added no worries i just have more set up for these two, Reader is does magic, Romance, Seasons 6 through 8, Slow Burn, The North Remembers vol 2, Westeros, hoho, she is from Asshai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-02-28 15:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: .Before all men must die, they must serve. And serving is exactly what will be difficult when you are supposed to serve the Lord of Light's best interests, not your own. When Melisandre brings Jon Snow back to the land of the living, you are tasked with making sure he adjusts accordingly, though what you did not anticipate that it will be hard to leave him when he does..[[ do not own game of thrones or you. this is all just for fun and because i am obsessed with essos ]]





	1. The Dawn

**THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI**

 

A new day has risen; snowflakes lazily dance outside the small window of the cold room. The Red Woman takes a step back, her ringed fingers now hidden within her sleeves as she intently watches the man, bare chested and unbreathing, laying on the wooden carved table. Flames lick the inside of the fireplace in a desperate attempt to keep warm. The pale body twitches ever so slightly, and the few people occupying the room hold their breath in anticipation.

You stand behind Melisandre as if a red shadow, lingering by the entrance with a mask of indifference shrouding your face. She turns to you gently, as if for support, as if to make sure you had not left, and you take a quiet step to her, your dress kissing the ground as you do. All eyes return to the dead again. The blues of his lips bloom with blood and in an instant he snaps his eyes open inhaling deep, rasp breath. Melisandre visibly eases, a small, grateful whisper falling from her lips addressed to her God, and you bow your head in his greatness as well. The companions of the man who came into this world twice rush to his side as he sits, confused and terribly disoriented. You and she allow them to welcome him back into the land of the living once more.

A few bewildered celebratory shouts and the room falls silent again, the Watchmen now more intrigued by the two witches dressed in gowns of deep red satin. Melisandre’s lips quirk upwards into a pleased smile, her eyes holding the authority of necromancer magic. You beside her appear no different in their eyes, or so you assume as the warmth of the fire heats your side and the freezing cold of the North burns the other.

“The Lord of Light has many plans for you, Jon Snow.” Melisandre addresses the dead man, now named. _Jon_ , you think, _Jon suits him. But Snow_ …Your eyes wander to the outside world again – the morning is crystal clear and icy – and wonder that perhaps that suits him, too. Pale, cold, with the stench of death still ebbing out of him, mysterious, yet undoubtedly beautiful. You catch his gaze and your heart spurs in your chest as if a caged bird – there is fire within those sad, brown eyes, traces of ancient magic that is potent, yet dormant. Not for long, though. Could this be why Melisandre had taken you with her? Had requested your presence out of the all Red Priests in Asshai? She was insistent, and on the long trip to Westeros you had mulled and nearly bitten your lips off from curiosity.

You are the youngest of them, after all. And he, Jon, is now freshly birthed into his second life.

Melisandre calls your name, drawing each syllable with grace and power, “…I leave you in charge of our Lord’s miracle.” Her sly gaze rests on you before she addresses Jon again, “Rest and be ready by the next dawn. The Lord of Light brought you back for a reason.” With that she exits the chamber, and you give his men a modest nod that they may leave, too. Uncertain if it is a smart idea to leave Jon with another witch – and, with all due respect, you understand their hesitance – they leave and, with a friendly “ _Yell if you need somethin’_ ” thrown at Jon, shut the door behind them,

“Welcome back.” You say, finally, after a thoughtful pause. He looks around awkwardly, his bones cracking as he does, “How does it feel?”

“It feels _uh_ …” His voice is hoarse and harsh, and he clears his throat. Immediately you go to the pitcher, fill him a glass of water and offer it, which he takes, “Thank you…” He mutters, taking a sip, “It feels…strange.”

“And to die?”

“Terrifying.” He admits. You poke the fire.

“There are worse things.”

“ _As_?”

“Not coming back” You turn to him, “-is one. _Betrayal_ , though, hurts the most, does it not?” He gazes you up and down, deeply conflicted.  A frown graces his features, one mostly out of habit, as he regards you with suspicion.

“.. _Who_ …Who are you, exactly? And who was…The Red Woman? _The other one_?”

“Well you already know _my_ name. And she is Melisandre.” You smile at him tenderly, “You needn’t fear, however. You are not in _her_ debt. _Our God_ is who brought you back. Some call us the _Red Priestesses_. Others… _witches_. But we are simply _servants,_ tasked with making sure the prophecy comes true.”

“What prophecy?”

“You already know, do you not?”

“I am just a man.”

You note a small red dot crawling on his shoulder and walk over. Leaning in, you extend your hand for the ladybug to climb on; it does so eagerly, jumping on one of your heavy rings. You grin, gazing into his eyes once more, “A _ladybug_ in the _North_ appears on your skin. You tell _me_ if you are _just_ a man, Jon Snow.”

 

**JON SNOW**

He is still too ill to move around carelessly, and with great difficulty, after rejecting Ladybug’s – it is what he decided to call her, her very own personal nickname – quite uninterested offer to help, he put on his robes and moved to stand by the window. The Courtyard, dyed in morning sunrays, glisters. The news of his revival had surely spread by now, and he expects to be disturbed any given moment, yet while there is no one pounding on his door and he has a moment to himself, he tries to steady his hands yet they do not stop shivering. It is _overwhelming_. One moment there was nothing but a long, cold night, and the next the whole world was crashing down onto him, pulling him out of endless slumber. While Ladybug was with him – her presence, albeit strange and somewhat disheartening, was mildly comforting and her intentions seemed pure – he had to contain his breathing and his hammering heart. He had not been so frightened since he fought the Wright. And so heartbroken since Olly thrusted his blade into his back. It is as if he feels these emotions for the first time, needs to learn to deal with them all over again. She had left a while ago. The insect crawled in circles on her hand, before it faded into nothing. Perhaps it was just an illusion and she was trying to cheer him up.

He spots her in the yard, her hood shielding her hair from the falling snowflakes. There is a small ruby bird chirping on her finger, and her expression betrays the upmost concentration. Could she be listening to it? Men work beside her as if she was not even there. Jon deems it strange that she, gifted with the exotic beauty of Essos, clad in all red, would not stand out to them against the pure white snow.

Alas, the bird flaps its wing joyfully and springs into the air, flying away, leaving but a single feather behind. She lifts her head and catches him ogling. He gulps. A knock on the door startles him and he turns to it, yelling an awkward “Come in!” before he gazes back through the window. She is gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hello! i am back with another got story and this time i mean business !!!! tnr is discontinued...probably...since finishing it would require me to literally be the next grrm and im really not that smart. i just really like essos. the new season so far has been a bit disappointing but my thirst for jon snow has been real. drama ensues shortly, no worries. hope you like the first chapter! cheers! also, this fic will feature all sorts of pov's, not just reader's! i think that is way more fun haha . OH AND ANOTHER THING! some things will be altered due to the fact that it’s my fic and i shall do as i please . nothing drastic or ooc tho dw


	2. Reunion

**MELISANDRE**

 

Melisandre is not one to doubt her God, yet the traitorous thoughts had plagued her since Stannis came to be not the Promised One. She felt ashamed; shunned; a disgrace to the Red Priests, to the God of Light and Fire, to herself. A century of living and for the first time since the early start her vision was unclear. Was bringing _(Name)_ here the right choice? Was (Name)’s council needed when her magic abandoned her? Was she blinded by evil? Fed to sinister illusions? She feared to speak High Valerian again after her abysmal failure.

But then Jon Snow rose from the dead, from the ashes, from the frosty snow. Life blooms within him now, and he is unchanged: still perpetually frowning and still loyal to his core. He is the _Promised One_ , she has no qualms about this. Her God has returned to her. And all of her worries had melted into distant memory.

Her heart swells in her chest and she can hardly contain her smile. Castle Black drowns in shadows, and she hides in one of them, watching as (Name) and Jon sit together, share whispers: he, donned in his Commander clothes, and her, dripping in deep red satin. The Hall is otherwise empty of spectators, only the flickering flame illuminating their silhouettes twirls and watches in the fireplace. She gently takes his hand, turns it, and pulls the sleeve all the way to his forearm. Jon, pensive, observes her elegant movements with morbid interest. (Name)’s fingers trail down from his elbow to his wrist, touch no lighter than a feather, hiss like whispers falling from her lips. The fire behind them rages and jumps, golden-orange and angry; in its brilliance glimmers one of the rings on her finger, one made of Valerian Steel and _oily black stone_.

Melisandre’s gaze shift to the ring, enraptured with its power. Its glittery surface reminds her of Asshai and its castles and homes, all infused with ancient magic. Perhaps that is why she took (Name) with her; perhaps _she_ reminds her of home. But Melisandre hardly cares for such _human_ values as home or family. She lives to serve, to fulfil a prophecy.

She does not recall the exact date of when (Name) first stepped foot on Asshai, but she knows it was dusk, and the night had been dark and misty. The sun was barely breaking the horizon, purple and blue from clouds and smoke. Then came whispers to her, mutters spoken in many languages, some of which even she did not recognise. They told of a child, no older than three, left by the peer, whose cries echoed with the crashing waves like thunder. In the dancing flames she saw an ashen face and eyes so piercing it struck her deeply, taking her breath away. Orders barked, people rushed, the babe was brought into the temple and candles lit up as the women in red walked over. Around the child’s throat hung the ring. She saw herself in its reflection.

Melisandre had watched (Name) grow in the glooms of Asshai; watched her eyes spark with wonder and lust for knowledge; watched her breathe freely in the labyrinth-esque library; watched her recite spells over and over and scry into fire and perform rituals of blood and bone. But (Name)’s birth remained a mystery – she, when confronted, did not know, and Melisandre, inquisitive, could not see it in the light. What she managed to find out, however, was a small secret, tailed by doubt: (Name) hails from _Yeen_.

Yet if she truly did, she would be dead.

And there is only but one explanation, one which reassures her that _everything_ is connected. (Name) had been brought to Asshai by the Lord of Light for Melisandre to teach, and she had brought (Name) to Westeros because she saw strands of her hair dancing in the northern wind of a vision.

Slowly, she sinks back into the shadows and leaves the hall, missing the suspicious glance (Name) had thrown the corner she had been standing in.

 

**THE RED WOMAN FROM ASSHAI**

 

His arm quivers under your touch; his skin is hot against it. His gaze jumps from your lips to your eyes and then to anywhere but you before the cycle continues. You find it somewhat amusing, and your lips quirk with a half-smile, your concentration breaking as enchantments burn in memory. You sigh and let go, make distance between the two of you and he breathes with relief, “If you keep staring at me, I will have trouble focusing.”

“Can’t I…uh…Can’t the Maester just have a look at me?”

You raise a brow, indifferent once more, “Did the Maester bring you back to life?” He lowers his head, “But, no matter now. You are fine. You shall live. There is nothing amiss.”

“That’s…good, I suppose.”

His face slips into a frown and you almost see his mind bend and boil with difficult thoughts. His gaze, distant and sombre, bores into the specs on the wooden table, and you sense he is no longer with you, rather lost somewhere. You turn to the fire: its warm glow kisses your face; the scent of burning wood reminds you of home. Your hands fidget with the ring absentmindedly. Images of today play in the flames: The Hanging, Jon’s desire to leave, and you, eventually, stopping him.

“What troubles you, Jon Snow?” You ask him softly. His jaw tenses, eyes closing painfully.

“You know _what_.”

“They were good men.”

You attention returns to him with curiosity, your words intentionally provocative and harsh. You wonder what shall he say, how shall he explain himself, what sort of twisted sense of justice he has. _They stabbed me_ , is the first thing that comes to mind. You tilt your head and watch him mull it all over; the painful blink of his lashes; the tightly shut lips; the tense shoulders that heave with contained breaths. _They betrayed me_ , is the second thing. You expect he shall give one of these answer. Then again, he might not grace you with an answer at all.

“They were.” He finally says, his voice low, barely a whisper. Your gazes meet and once again your heart jumps to your throat – within their gentle depths resides a fire, traces of ancient magic, ancient _blood_ – and you feel a shiver crawl up your spine. “They did what they thought was right.” He continues, turning away “And I killed them for it.”

“All men must die.” You say, “But before that… All men must _serve_.” You add after a thoughtful pause. He nods hollowly, not entirely listening. “Those who fall out of line must be guided back. Or face the consequences of their actions…Would you have them betray you again?”

“I would rather not have any of this happen at all.”

“What is done cannot be undone.”

“Not even with magic?” He asks, voice shimmering with amusement.

“No. It would be unwise even to try.” You glance at the fire, it now subdued to but a glow, “The outcome could be… _Haunting_.”

His eyes squint, “Have you…ever tried?”

Jon’s question takes you back into Asshai, into a dark room lit by candles and a flag of a red heart hung above the bed. The moon is in full bloom, its magnetic radiance illuminating the tombs spilled with blood, the silver blade laying forgotten on the pillow, and the ring dotted in maroon spots.

You return to reality with a deep inhale and sit up straight, “No.” Is all that falls from your lips, too quick to be the truth, too quick to have any real meaning. You clear your throat and your hand grasps his wrist, startling him. His pulse drums against your skin, erratic, “Someone’s coming to see you.” You announce, eyes not leaving his strained veins, “Be ready.” You finish and let go just as harshly as you had grabbed him.

You leave him stunned and confused, exiting the Hall and meeting the bleak day. Crows fly around in circles. Their croaks warn of a visitor.

**SANSA STARK**

It was an emotional reunion, and Sansa’s bones nearly cracked from the fierceness of Jon’s hold, strong and protective, and she had cried into his shoulder in silent, happy tears. It came in waves, that terrible relief and sadness: she could breathe again knowing there is no safer place on Earth than by his side, yet she was devastated because it had taken so long to reach him. The adrenaline that had been fuelling her died down in his arms, and she was suddenly exhausted, too frail to stand, yet too fearful to let go. Eventually she did, after muffled words exchanged between them, and she wiped away her tears hurriedly. Red from crying and puffy, her eyes glistered like emeralds against the snow. Alas, with the promise of reuniting once more at supper, she was escorted to a temporary chamber. As she climbed up the creaky, uneven stairs, and listened to the harsh wind whipping against the small windows, she almost fell into tears again.

But when she entered her room she was not alone. The small space contained a bed, a single window, a chair, and a fireplace spilling with hot flames, they casting strange shapes on the pale, dirty walls. On the chair sits a woman clad in red, hair hidden behind a satin hood, her expression tranquil and pleasant, fingers working quick on embroidery. Sansa halts by the door, startled. A soft hum slips past the shut lips of the stranger, before she finally lifts her eyes and greets her, “Hello, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You seem tired. You should rest.”

It struck Sansa there and then that she is no one ordinary, no chamber maid, no lady. The delirious, sing-song tone of her voice, foreign features belonging neither to North or South, the air of absolute secret…It struck Sansa that she is the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and she had witnessed many Queens in their silk dresses, ladies with their charming rose-bud smiles, maids in blushed timid faces. Yet never had she found them all that appealing, though now she reconsiders and her heartbeat quickens if a bit _. But it is silent here_ , she realises; no whips of wind, simply the fire cracks and jumps in the fireplace.

“Who are you?” Sansa asks, cautious and untrusting, unmoving by the door. The woman in red sets down her embroidery, regarding it with a bored glance.

“I am (Name) of Asshai.” She introduces in the same lovely tone.

“Asshai?” Sansa frowns, the name familiar yet unplaced.

The woman, now dubbed as (Name), nods, “East most and South most of Essos, at the end of the known world.” She explains, “The land of arcane arts.”

“You’re a witch?” Sansa questions doubtfully, voice riddled with mirth and disbelieve.

(Name) leans out of her chair, her face glowing pretty in the firelight, “I am. Does that frighten you?”

“Should it?”

“Well, you have not moved yet. I promise I mean no harm. I am here because your brother asked me to be. He does not trust the men working here. And for good reason, might I add.”

(Name) told about the death and resurrection, the tale so outlandish Sansa would have trouble believing it if she did not know for fact that it was true. She eased eventually, the mysterious figure of the Red Woman appeared less menacing and more child-like with a curious disposition. (Name) explained that she had never been to the North, and that her skin had burned from the cold and her throat was sore immediately within but a few breaths. She also admitted that she did not like the North, her gaze wandered to the window, to the Wall moulded from snow and magic. She mentioned a great evil restlessly drifting beyond it. But Sansa, finally in bed, her body covered in mountains of blankets and fur, hardly listened to words spoken in common tongue. She frowned softly when the tone shifted so something ululating and low. She blinked owlishly, presented with a gift – (Name) offered the embroidery with a wolf woven out of silver thread. Sleepily Sansa accepted, running her fingers along the neat lines.

“Your brother said you loved sewing.” (Name) admitted, “I thought this would make you feel more at home.” She added, the first notes of tenderness blooming in her voice. Yet she did not stick around for long, and with a smile, genuine or not Sansa could not tell, she slunk back to the door, and silently shut it behind her. The fire died down. The room went dark.

And it is as if everything that had happened up until this point faded in memory, and overcome with drowsiness Sansa fell asleep, the gift still tangled in her fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: WOW. the GOT finale made me so happy that i return with vengeance. i love morally ambiguous characters haha and that is what i want to make the reader. no one really knows where shes from and why is she there. cant wait to kiss jon snow tho. or his sister. lol.  
> a small note within this note: grrm described Asshai'i language as "shrill" and "ululating" so the last part is a reference to that. some contrast can be seen between mel and reader: home is obviously important to reader, while mel does not care about that at all. also, reader is somewhat stoic as she thru the story will learn to adapt. not sure if anyone knows a lot about Asshai, but there are no children there, and despite it being a bigger city than three of the largest ones from Westeros combined, the population is very small and people walk alone cloaked and hidden behind masks. sorry went on a ramble. essos is literally the most interesting part abt GOT lol. cant wait to explore more of it! yeen and etc will be addressed in later chapters. this honestly is such a passion project.  
>  thank you for the reads and kudos!


	3. Loneliness

**THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI**

The Hall is hot, humid, and full to the brim with people and their eager breaths. A small feast – the revival of Jon Snow and Lady Stark’s sudden visit – takes place in order to celebrate this victory before the storm. A great battle looms over the shoulders of the Starks and their loyal followers. A moment of happiness is what all of them deserve, especially before the call to arms.

You sit beside a timid round faced Podrick and a messy haired loud mouthed Tormund right across you. It was the Wildling’s idea to have you join them, as he had, eagerly at that, dragged you from the courtyard and shoved a goblet of dry, cheap wine into your hand. Its ruby surface is diluted and rose, bleak in front of your deep red garments. You are a red spring bird amongst the crows, shining like a midnight star, and for that reason alone you find men’s gazes wandering to you as the evening progresses, each look bolder than the last. Tormund had already drunk his wine, now filling himself more from the pitcher and spilling half of it on the table. He regards his slip of hand with a hearty laugh. Podrick beside you sips politely, his eyes shooting to Brienne of Tarth, the lady knight-to-be seated close to Sansa, set on never leaving the girl for too long.

“C’mon, drink up,” Tormund encourages, clinking his glass with yours and nearly knocking it over, “if you’re quick you might miss the fact that it tastes like piss.”

Podrick snorts into his drink, red-cheeked and giddy, as Tormund, in one impressive gulp, empties the glass, and then moves for the pitcher. You watch mildly impressed. This whole interaction is completely out of your element, and the stiffness in your neck, lack of movement, lack of even a shy glance outside the figures of these two men proves your discomfort visibly. Melisandre is nowhere to be seen, possibly locked away in her chamber, possibly watching the flames and the secrets which hide within them. You should have joined her, you ponder, staring at your full cup, you should be there with her, be preparing for what is instore for the future. You are here to help, not to mindlessly blabber and mingle with strangers you shall never see again.

“You seem unease, Miss.” Podrick comments, his voice gentle, concerned, as his brows knit together in wonder. You say nothing, uncertain if there is anything to say at all. Should you correct him? Lie? There is no point to it. Your fate is not intertwined with his; it would be a waste of time to even engage him. “Is our company…unpleasant?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Pond.” Tormund says, lowering the pitcher from his mouth, “Lady Red here’s probably used to somethin’ a lil’ more fancy than this shithole. Ain’t that right?” He looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to confirm his suspicions and prove just what a pompous royal you are: he had noticed you barely talking to anyone but the Lord Commander, and you and Melisandre rarely left the confinements of your chambers, and if you did, it was to watch eerily from the shadows as the men around you worked and swore.

“No.” You reply after a moment of hesitation, “I’ve…never been to a feast.” It is not a shameful admission, though his reaction ticks you.

“You _what_?” Tormund barks, laugher bubbling in his chest, “You a good liar, you know that?”

“It is true.” You persevere, voice unwavering, still cool, still unimpressed, “I am a priestess. There are no celebrations in the temple.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve never had a drink before?” He raises a suspicious brow, “You buyin’ this, Poddick?”

“It’s _Podrick_.” The man nervously replies. Tormund merely dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“Not wine, per se.” You say, raising your glass, curiously watching it, “I have had a drink of R’hllor’s Blood.” You catch his gaze, the pretty greens of his eyes twinkling in the firelight, “One sip and the whole world disappears into a cloud of smoke. And for the rest of the night you feel as if you are floating. There is no fear. Nor happiness. Simply a forever of tranquility.” You take a wary sip and regret it immediately. It is disgusting, “And then you awake, with no memory of what had happened. Some find it comforting. Others… unsettling. I say it’s better than drinking _this_.”

“I need me some of that.” Tormund hums, “You have it with you? Now?”

“Only for ritual purposes, I’m afraid.” You say, “And no. Did not think I would need it.”

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” Podrick asks cautiously. You simply nod, “As in…A _real_ one?”

“Does she look like a fuckin’ ghost to you?” Tormund questions, his voice rough and mirthful.

A small smile slips on your lips, “Not a ghost, I assure you. Though there are plenty of those that roam the Asshai rivers, hide in corners of old temples.”

“Sounds like a scary place.” Podrick comments.

It had never occurred to you, really, the prospect of fright associated with a city drowned in mist. It is always dark there, always gloomy, and even on the brightest days the sun is hazy purple and the clouds are a furious grey. The homes, castles, temples are built from glossy black stone which absorbs any shred of light that might touch it, creating a vacuum. The rivers are clear and ghastly, the waves of the sea crash in sounds of wails of drowned women, and the roads are always empty. From your room, if you were to gaze outside, you could see perhaps a few figures rushing from one place to another, hidden in cloaks and wearing masks. Then again, those might simply be illusions created by the fire.

“…People usually fear what they don’t understand.” You mutter, “Perhaps to foreigners it does sound a bit…odd. Then again, those who do not wish to study magic have no place there.”

 “I don’t need fuckin’ magic when I got a sword.” Tormund starts, elated, as if telling a great tale, “One hand an axe, the other a blade. Cut your head off and stab you for good measure.” He winks, “Oh, you should see what’s beyond the wall. Freedom, is what it is. _Freedom_. Mountains of snow, the world seems fuckin’ endless. We move from place to place, wherefuckin’ever we like, and we don’t have to answer to any lord or lady. Do what we want, when we want. Beyond the wall is a beautiful fuckin’ place.”

“ _We_?” You ask.

“Me and the Wildings. We travel together. We hunt together. You’d end up dead in a day out there alone.” He explains, near boastful, “And what about you? Form any prayer circles with the other ladies?”

“What Tormund is _trying_ to say,” Podrick quickly intervenes, “is if you and the other priestess’s are close. You and the Red Woman seem amiable.” He finishes with a friendly smile, “Pardon us.” He shoots a glance at Tormund, he already opening his mouth, “We’re just curious. _Ashai_ —Am I saying that correctly? - is so far away and…No one knows much of it.”

Close? You suppose that some might think so, but that would be untrue. You know of Cordelia from the Yi Ti(1), a woman with burgundy hair and chilling ice blue eyes. You have spoken to her once during a ritual, and her voice was permanently struck by sorrow, but melodious and pretty. Then there was Sheena from Nefer(2), a tall, inked woman, whose voice was rasp and low, reminding you of gravel crunching under your feet. But you would never consider them as friends, nor foes, simply other women serving the same God but with different purposes.

Then, of course, there is Melisandre, though friendship between you two is also not something that can be placed. She is more of a mentor, an authoritative figure that watches over you, but her loyalties lie and always will lie with the God of Light and Fire. The nature of your profession does not allow for relationships; there must be no ties to the real world. It is only temporary, after all.

“No,” You admit, suddenly struck with deep sadness as your eyes wander around the room, ears ring painfully with laughter. You feel incredibly small, and your shoulders cave with an exhale, “No, we are not…close.”

Tormund’s brows shoot upwards, “So, you mean to tell me, Lady Red, is that you have no fuckin’ _friends_?”

You look around again, as if only now noticing how tightly knit this group is, how everyone is conversing eagerly, filling themselves silly with drink, shrilling first notes of a song heard long ago.

“I suppose I don’t.” You confess, “No, I do not have any friends, as you call it. The Asshai’i are…not warm people. And we don’t talk a lot. We are but a small population wandering the maze of the city. We rarely meet. Some of us sail and never return. There is no time for…friendships to form.”

“Sounds lonely.” Podrick mutters after a pause, even Tormund not daring to break it. They note your worry struck face, as if they, too, are living this revelation along with you. It is lonely, indeed, but never have you noticed just how much. You should not care for such things. You did not even think of them before this dreaded conversation.

You have never been abroad, Asshai being your only point of reference. You know little of Westerosi customs and Melisandre had offhandedly once said that one learns these things with time, though a certain detachment must always be in place. The Red Priests must be ready to do anything and everything upon their God’s command. Relationships would only get in the way of that philosophy.

Tormund smacks your shoulder crudely, making you flinch and halt your train of dreaded thought. You glance up at him, finding him grinning from ear to ear, “It’s a good thing we found you then, ey? Cause you’d wish you never had friends if you were to talk to _those_.” He motions with his head vaguely to the Watchmen, his eyes twinkling with mirth. You crack a smile, secretly thankful for his weirdly convivial words.

 

**JON SNOW**

 

The first embers of happiness light up her face, and he eases in his chair, watching wistfully from afar. Jon had wanted to come to her aid once he saw Tormund drag her helplessly, and Podrick fretfully try to make her feel welcomed, even if evidently she did not want to be a part of their small group. He watched as they drank and she listened to their spouting, later engaging in conversation with Tormund which was never a good idea. He is brash, and zestful, and at times humorous, yet she seemed awfully cautious of her words and bearing no real connection to others, and Jon feared she might not understand, or take offense to something the Wildling had said.

His fear had melted when he noticed that she started to smile as she visibly relaxed in their presence. She raises her cup to her lips for the second time and takes a bolder sip. Tormund cheers happily. Jon grins to himself.

“Go talk to her.” Sansa says, startling him. A smile plays in her voice, “I saw you stealing glances at her all evening.”

He clears his throat, “Yeah, I saw you staring, too.”

Sansa shrugs, “She does stand out amongst the crowd. That and she looked properly uncomfortable.”

“That’s just part of Tormund’s charm, I suppose.” He adds, unsure of what to say. She regards him with a bored look. “What?” He asks.

With her head, Sansa motions to Ladybug, “ _Go_.”

“You go.” He says defensive, “You’re…a girl. You probably have more in common with her anyway.”

Sansa almost rolls her eyes, “I doubt it. The only reason she gave me the Wolf was because you told her I liked needlework. I don’t think she did it because she actually enjoys it.” Her pretty eyes wander to the Red Woman, “She did not strike me as a type to enjoy anything, really.” Ladybug’s laugher rings in the hall like a bell, some men turning to her in wonder. “I suppose she is more approachable than the other one.”

“She’s kind,” Jon says, “if not a bit…”

“Tactless?” Sansa finishes for him. He nods sullenly. Her lips quirk upwards into a teasing smile, “ _See_? You two have a lot in common already.”

“I am not _tactless_.” He retorts.

“Then prove me wrong and _go_.” She nudges him, “Come on, before your Wildling friend pours her another glass of this awful wine.”

 

 

**THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI**

The moon smiles down at you, half in bloom, its radiant light making the Wall glow. Wind howls in your ears, yet the cold air is refreshing after an evening of confinement within a room full of drinking people. The sweet scent of wine fades as the heavy door closes behind you, along with it snippets of laughs and chatter. The whole world grows pleasantly silent; the night is dark and starless.

Again you sense a restless evil which’s fingers reach from over the Wall, its watchful eye observing your small frame from the sky. You feel it – the shrill of the north, the frost collecting on bones, the sinister unease struck by peering into the void – and you pull your robes closer to your body, trying to keep warm, to feel comfort. Despite the eerie mirage in your mind, you feel a sense of familiarity. Darkness. Wisps of cool wind that sounds like whispers. If the structures were made from stone which can hold no reflection, then you would almost be certain you are back home.

Home. You have no home. Your home is wherever the Lord of Light deems it being. But overhearing Lady Stark tell Lord Snow of Winterfell with such conviction and such tenderness, it made you reconsider the meaning of the world entirely.

The door behind you opens and shuts once more, light spilling on the snow under your feet. You sense him before you see him, his aura now too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else. Jon Snow comes to join you by the railing, silent, brooding, following your gaze to the Wall, perhaps wandering what creatures hide behind it. He clears his throat in an attempt to catch your attention, and you tilt your head gently in his direction, “Saw you talking with Tormund.” He starts trying to sound impartial, “He means no harm, I assure you.” His concern comes out a bit awkward, and he avoids your gaze religiously because of it.

You nod timidly, your mind drifting back to the conversation, “I know.” You say softly, your voice carried by the wind, “It was…enlightening.” For a moment he figures you are joking, and snorts, but then he realises you are serious and hurriedly fixes a thoughtful expression, “You are lucky to have him as a friend. He will aid you in future battles.”

“Saw that in the fire?”

“No. It’s just…what friends do.”

A few snowflakes spiral from the sky; they land on your rosy cheek and kiss the skin with their cool touch. A few more spray the ground, your shoulders, tangle in his curly hair. The two of you move closer to one another, or perhaps he moves closer to you or vice versa, but the furs on his shoulder gently brushes yours and you smile lightly. He assumes you are pleased with the pretty sight of a starting storm. He is only partly wrong.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” You admit.

“It… doesn’t snow in Asshai?” He asks lamely.

You want to tell him that no, it does not, that it only rains ashes and that they are hot and foul smelling, and that they burn your skin. Alas, you settle with, “For R’hllor’s sake, read a book, Jon Snow.”

He coughs a laugh. You smile to yourself. He ushers you inside when the storm picks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Yi Ti is said to be the richest kingdom in Essos  
> (2) Nefer is a underground city of necromancers
> 
> hello again! glad to have u back!! thank u so much for the all the kudos and reads, this is a delight to write:) romance shall ensue shortly! xx


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